MA BEAUTÉ | J. BELLINGHAM

twenty-eight | real life ; insta ; imessage

the anticiption was unfathomably nauseating. xenoia sat at the edge of her seat, hands interlocked into a tight grasp as she observed harry kane walk into position to take the penalty. france were already leading with 2, and after kane's successful shot, gifting england with their first goal of the night, there were no doubts that he wouldn't make it this time.

but as the whistle blew and the footballer ran up to the ball, instead of hearing the satisfying whoosh of a net, the screen's edge is blown off by the ball flying up to God knows where.

"oh my fucking gosh."

disbelief was merciless, and the impending dread of the final whistle blowing without a second goal from england was, at this point, inevitable. a camera panned over to kane's face, riddled with dejection as he clenched his shirt between his teeth.

xenoia sat there, palms digging into her eyes as the scene replayed over and over again in her mind.

"how the actual fuck has he missed that?"

the game resumed, and it was painfully obvious how intensely england were pressing forward. every chance was taken, but with one pass done by the england team, the french had been able to tackle the ball back into their possession and duplicate it tenfold.

hopelessness was a given at this point.

the 90 minute mark was nearing, no goals being made and the desperation of the england players oozed through the screen. it was frustrating, seeing how fouls were like a two-in-one package deal that came within playing against france. xenoia couldn't even count how many times saka had swept the pitch with his body.

the game was stagnant, and as 90 hit and an extra 8 minutes were provided, it was too evident, as much as it pained to say, that france would be victorious.

yet, another chance came.

mason, with the confirmation of var ("dunno why the dickhead couldn't tell it was a foul," xenoia kissed her teeth. it was subpar effort from the referee and frankly speaking, she thought he deserved to be left unemployed), was granted a penalty after being viscerally slammed to the ground. rashford was set to take the shot, after only being subbed on a couple of minutes ago.

it truly was a disaster waiting to happen. xenoia knew that the nerves would get to him, and watching as the ball skimmed the top of the net further proved her point. she slumped in her seat, watching as rashford screamed in anger.

"we're gonna be out of the cup now."

as much as she would've held a grudge against rashford, it wasn't particularly fair for him to be subbed in so late yet take the shot for a [basically] deciding penalty.

then the final whistle blew and an aggravating sea of navy blue-clad men run towards each other on the pitch, jumping on top of one another as they celebrated yet another win.

the green grass was dotted with saddened men in white and the camera pans over to jude, crouched on his knees, face buried in hands. xenoia could cry with him, she had been aware of how much he had wanted to win a world cup at such a young age. but she was so proud of him, and soon grabbed her phone to spam jude with encouragment and praise. there was no room for argument, jude had the best player at most times during their matches, and his efforts would not at all be in vain.

her hyperfocus on her mass texting were diminished by the sound of jude's voice, thick and laced with exhaustion, greeted the interviewer curtly. his eyebrows were still drawn in, disheartened by the results of the game, but his diligence and composure outshone.

"so jude, what are your overall thoughts? because i was talking to harry maguire and kyle walker a few minutes ago and it was said by both of them that you deserve better."